


A Little Restraint

by graceandfire



Series: Brightness Burns [8]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandfire/pseuds/graceandfire





	A Little Restraint

Leonard spends his first week back on the Enterprise in Sickbay.  The first two days he's either unconscious or out of it from painkillers; the next four he falls into progressively viler moods as his body painfully knits itself back together and he’s faced with the indignity of being stuck as a patient in his _own damn infirmary_.    He tries releasing himself on the third day—he’s a doctor and more than capable of monitoring his goddamn injuries himself—but Christine’s shaking voice as she tells him exactly what Kirk has promised to do if anything goes wrong keeps him in his biobed as effectively as chains.    
  
By the end he’s surly as an injured bear and roaring at everyone who comes near him.  Kirk, he stubbornly tries to ignore as the captain stops by at random times, sitting tilted back in a visitor’s chair with legs propped on Leonard’s bed, alternating between mocking him and catching him up on ship’s business.    
  
After finally being released by M’Benga—and forbidden to step foot in Sickbay for any professional reason, check-ups twice a day—Leonard holes up in his quarters, grouchy but at least _alone_ , as he weans himself off the painkillers and broods.  By the end of the second day after his release, Leonard’s starting to feel like not only might he recover, but in a not too distant future he might even want to.    
  
He’s gritting his teeth against a headache, trying to read through medical reports smuggled out of Sickbay when he gets the order to report to Kirk’s quarters at 2100 that evening.  It gives him about twenty minutes to report for fuck duty and he spends the time brooding because it's like he was never gone; never kidnapped down a galactic fucking rabbit hole to a reality that shone too brightly for him to ever belong.  
  
Leonard arrives at Kirk’s door and announces his presence through the comm.  As the locks blink over from red to green, he enters to find Kirk sitting at his desk reviewing a padd marked with the official Terran Empire seal.  At Leonard’s entrance, Kirk shoves back from the desk and swivels his chair around, giving him a critical once over.    
  
“Computer, shut down and secure all files.”  As the padd blinks off, Kirk stands and walks towards Leonard, assessing.    
  
“Take off your uniform.”  
  
Well that didn’t fucking take long, Leonard thinks resentfully, glaring.  He wonders if there will ever be a time when Kirk’s sexual orders don’t bring up the knee jerk desire to rebel.  He’s learned to control it for the most part but he knows the emotion still leaks through.  He scowls as he shrugs out of his jacket and undershirt, wincing at the pull on still healing bruises, and stands still as Kirk closes in.    
  
“Are your pants not part of your uniform?” Kirk inquires mildly as he circles Leonard.  
  
The urge to snarl grows but Leonard bites it back—it will only fucking amuse Kirk—as he undoes his trousers and steps out of them, pulling down his underwear at the same time, if only to deprive Kirk of the fun of ordering him out of those too.  He stands in the middle of Kirk’s living quarters, buck naked, as Kirk saunters around him like he’s looking to purchase—although that analogy doesn’t really work since Kirk already fucking owns his ass.    
  
Leonard knows exactly what Kirk’s seeing, given his intimate and professional knowledge of every bruise, contusion, broken bone and internal injury he’s recovering from.  Dermal regenerators can work wonders along with bone knitters and other miracles of modern medicine, but there’s only so far technology can push the healing process; the body still has to make the rest of the journey to recovery the old fashioned way.  
  
Moving closer, Kirk reaches up to skate a hand over Leonard’s black eye and still tender jaw and cheekbone before moving to run assessing hands over the bruises still livid on Leonard’s chest, arms, and back.  It brings a surge of interest from Leonard’s dick even as he reflexively flinches at even that light pressure probing at tender flesh.  
  
Kirk shakes his head as he pokes at one bruise over Leonard’s abdomen that’s a violent purple blue, pulling a muffled grunt of pain from Leonard as he tightens his hands at his sides.    
  
Kirk frowns in irritation.  “That the best your staff can do?  It’s been nine days McCoy.  Maybe I should go have a chat with them.”  
  
“Oh, fuck you,” Leonard growls, pushed out of his surly silence by the unfair criticism of his highly trained medical staff’s treatment of the injuries _that Kirk inflicted_.  “My recovery’s right on medical schedule.  Not all of us have inhuman healing powers, y’know,” he adds with an unfriendly glare.  
  
It’s true.  Kirk heals faster than anyone else Leonard has ever treated.  Like he possesses so much energy it just burns through the injuries.  Maybe he’s made a deal with some dark deity.  
  
Kirk smirks at him suddenly and there’s a glint of humor in wicked blue eyes.  “I guess it’s just your ancient age then, old man.  Takes you too fucking long to recover.”  He reaches down without warning to cup Leonard’s balls, causing Leonard to jump in spite of himself, before dragging a hand up his dick in an almost too hard pull, smiling in satisfaction as it jumps from half hard to rigid.  “Well, _most_ of you.”  
  
With one last pull, Kirk abruptly lets go and, abandoning his exploration of Leonard’s body, wonders over to flop down in a relaxed sprawl on the couch, looking up at Leonard with a speculative gleam in blue eyes.  
  
Leonard wonders what Kirk’s in the mood for.  If he’ll order a blow job or want to fuck.  Truth is, trained needs of his dick aside, he’s not looking forward to tonight because every part of him still aches and he’s not even sure he can work his recovering jaw well enough to give a decent blow job.  Either way, it’s going to be damned uncomfortable.    
  
He’s expecting the order to get down on his knees or bend over the couch.  He’s sure as hell not expecting Kirk to roll his eyes and then wave his hand in a casual gesture towards the sideboard against the wall.    
  
“Well, shit, it looks like we’re not fucking, so we might as well get drunk.  Grab the bourbon.”  
  
He stares down at Kirk with glowering suspicion, which Kirk returns with a ‘what?’ shrug.  When there’s no punch line that follows, Leonard stalks to the sideboard and grabs the bourbon and two tumblers, coming back to set them down with a thunk on the glass table by Kirk’s propped up feet.  He thinks about asking whether he can put his damn clothes back on, but since that would give Kirk the opportunity to say no, he reaches down instead, grabbing his briefs and trousers and yanking them on.  As he settles himself cautiously on the couch in deference to the bruises, he shoots a mutinous glare at Kirk who just gives him another one of his damn smirks and reaches down to pour generous shots of bourbon in each of the tumblers, handing one off to Leonard before holding his glass out in toast.  
  
“To your healing abilities improving so I can fuck you without breaking you,” he says cheerfully and clinks his tumbler against Leonard’s.  
  
Leonard just glares and then rolls his eyes—because what is there to say to that—before knocking the shot back with an appreciative wheeze.  Alcohol doesn’t mix with the drugs he’s been taking so he hasn’t been able to touch his own stash since he’s been back.  The burn feels amazing going down and even better when it hits his bloodstream.  
  
Seven shots later the world is a blurry haze all touched in gold and Leonard is feeling abso _fucking_ lutely no physical pain, although his emotional mood is another story.  He _was_ in a good mood for awhile; he vaguely recalls there being singing earlier in the evening.  There’s also the hazy recollection of drunk-off-your-ass poker and an uneasy blurred memory that he owes Kirk five years pay.  Bastard can hold his liquor, Leonard thinks in bleary accusation.  Of course, the bastard didn’t even drink that much, drinking one for Leonard’s every…two?  Or was it three?  He looks over to glare at the bastard in question who’s lying next to him on the bed, passed out, but still giving the impression of restlessness, even in sleep.  
  
At least he _is_ sleeping.  Not goddamn fair, since Leonard is wide awake, still drunk, exhausted and wired all at the same time.  It’s deeper than just the physical tiredness of a healing body or the effects of the liquor.  It’s like his whole goddamn messed up life is dragging at him.  His mood goes darker, surliness descending to full on pissed, even though he’s not exactly sure at what.  Leonard’s not upset about the beating.  He got off lucky there and he knows it.  No, it’s just… _fuck_ , he shifts restlessly on the bed, causing Kirk to twitch in his sleep before settling; he’s just pissed at the whole fucking Universe. _Two_ fucking Universes.  
  
Maybe that’s it.  The fact that he’s back here again, in Kirk’s bed, like nothing’s changed except it somehow has, because that other goddamn Universe is haunting him, despite his best efforts to forget.  It’s too hard to remember that shining reality when it’s his fate to live in this one.  But memories keep popping up stubbornly.  It’s like a twisted sense of déjà vu that mocks him, a blurry filter distorting the people and places he’s known for years.  
  
And Leonard is suddenly, belligerently pissed that Kirk didn’t fuck him tonight.  It’s not like Kirk wasn’t in the mood because Kirk is _always_ in the mood.  No, Kirk was being _careful_ with him, Leonard thinks indignantly.  _His_ Kirk isn’t supposed to be _thoughtful_ or _careful_ or what the fuck ever.  It brings _him_ , the other James T. Kirk, to mind.  The two shouldn’t overlap, shouldn’t remind him of each other.  It just messes things all the hell up.  
  
Leonard remembers the other Kirk’s stubbornly trusting eyes as he let Leonard tie him up, the absolute faith that Leonard wouldn’t take advantage of it.  He tries to imagine _his_ Kirk letting him do the same and he snorts in derision at the idea.  Yeah, right.  _His_ Kirk would respond to being tied up like…  
  
An idea makes its way through his liquor soaked brain.    
  
Wow, it’s a stupid idea.  It's a fucking _suicidal_ idea.  Even through the bourbon haze, Leonard knows it’s asking for a punishment that will make his recent beating look like a kiss on the cheek.  But at the same time it also makes _total fucking sense_ he thinks with the certainty of alcohol fueled logic.  What better way to stop this vertigo feeling of being caught between two lives, two realities, then to demonstrate how different they really are.    
  
He reaches over the side of the bed to fumble open the nightstand drawer, pulling out the restraints that are right where Kirk normally keeps them.  They’ve been used on him before, though not often.  Kirk’s got enough tools in his arsenal, both physical and psychological, that he doesn’t really need them to keep Leonard in line.  He looks over at Kirk, sleeping sprawled out, nude.  How he can seem to pour off energy even in the middle of sleep is one of life’s mysteries.  Leonard stares for another long instant and then, before the desperately shrieking voice of sanity wins, he rolls onto Kirk, pushing him down as he yanks the other man’s hands up, keying the restraints on.  
  
Kirk is awake instantly, bucking up enough to get his knees under him for leverage and Leonard can feel muscles coiling in readiness to do more as he holds Kirk down with everything he has, part of him surprised he even managed to get the damn restraints on.  
  
“McCoy, the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Kirk’s voice is rough from sleep but alert.    
  
Instead of answering, Leonard reaches down and around to cup Kirk’s dick, the already hard organ going harder in his hand.  Kirk tenses further, hard muscles bunching under Leonard, but otherwise he remains still, which makes no kind of sense.  With the alcohol fast deserting his system, Leonard is soberingly aware he should be getting the shit kicked out of him right now, but he’s got the frigging tiger by its tail and it’s too late to stop now.    
  
“McCoy.”  It’s just his name this time, said sharply but with a note of curiosity, like Kirk’s wondering about Leonard’s sudden desire to flirt with painful suicide.  
  
“When we fucked, the other Kirk let me tie him down.”  _Oh shit_ , he hadn’t meant to say that.  Sure enough, the tension in the body under him takes on a noticeably homicidal vibe.  
  
“Oh, is that right?”  
  
“Yeah, bastard wanted me…he wanted me to trust him.”    
  
There’s a long pause—Kirk’s probably going over the different ways he can have Leonard tortured to death.  
  
“I see,” Kirk finally says, twisting his head up enough that Leonard can see the dark gleam of an eye.  
  
“And do I seem anything like that pansy assed, pathetic excuse for a Kirk?”  The tone of the question indicates that the answer to this question should be very, very obvious.  
  
Instead of answering—because how does he say ‘I’m trying to prove that you’re not’ without sounding like he _wants_ to be punished, he doesn’t does he, is that what this is about?—Leonard tightens his hold and blindly reaches out to the still open nightstand for lube.  Kirk has an absolutely scary tolerance for pain but that’s not what this is about, even if Leonard’s not actually sure _what_ the hell this is about, other than proving some point that _he_ doesn’t even fully understand.  But it’s not about pain.  So he clumsily slicks himself up one handed and then sinks his fingers into Kirk’s ass in hasty prep.  He keeps waiting for Kirk to do something—like _kill_ him—as he pushes in one finger, then two, and finally three.  Heat that has nothing to do with bourbon flushes through him at the sight as he wonders again why the hell Kirk is letting this happen.  Kirk may be wearing restraints but, since Leonard once saw him take out a room full of aliens with a _sword_ while in restraints, he’s under no illusion about who’s letting who do what to whom.    
  
But Kirk just mutters a low curse under his breath and holds still and—Jesus, he’s really going to _do_ this—Leonard pushes in with a grunt and a curse, and oh _fuck,_ he almost comes right then but if he’s going to die for this he’s going to get his goddamn money’s worth.  So he grits his teeth and pulls out, trembling with the effort.  Need swims dizzily through him as he slams back in and _fuckfuckfuck_ that feels _amazing_.  Even through the rapidly fading buzz of alcohol, his bruised body starting to shriek in protest, it feels _amazing_.  He slides his hand over Kirk’s rock hard dick and pushes in again, the pressure making him groan as he starts a rhythm, going deeper and deeper with each stroke and the whole thing goes from hot to fucking _inferno_ when Kirk gives a sudden shudder around him and Leonard can feel the vibration of it in his dick because he’s _inside_ him and it’s the sounds of Kirk’s muffled grunts and viciously muttered “ _fuck_ ” as he comes, shooting into Leonard’s hand, that sends Leonard flying over the edge, shuddering and shouting his own release.  
  
Leonard’s chest is still heaving from exertion when he pulls out, muscles trembling at the effort, when Kirk moves.  Without warning legs scissor up as Kirk twists around and Leonard finds their positions reversed with dizzying speed, on his hands and knees as Kirk’s cuffed hands jerk Leonard’s head back in a brutal head lock that makes breathing a severe challenge and sends a wave of pain exploding across his injured jaw.  Leonard’s not surprised as he finds himself immobile.  The only real surprise is that Kirk waited this long.    
  
“Feeling better, stud?”  Kirk asks, softly mocking in his ear, hot bourbon breath puffing along Leonard’s cheek as the almost uncomfortable heat of the other man settles along Leonard’s back.  It’s a second surprise because Leonard is expecting homicide, not mocking.  
  
“Yes,” Leonard chokes out past the stranglehold of Kirk’s forearm, struggling not to pass out and, more importantly, not vomit up and choke on the bourbon flavored contents of his stomach that’s suddenly sloshing queasily.  
  
“Good.” In another quick move, Leonard finds himself flipped again, on his back now, straddled by Kirk whose forearm is still firmly cutting off about 80% of Leonard’s ability to breathe.  
  
“Because you’ve really been a sulking bitch since you got back.”  Kirk looks down at him and for a moment he almost looks…indulgent.    
  
Of course Leonard could be misinterpreting since his vision’s starting to recede to tunnel vision as his burning lungs make increasingly frantic demands.  
  
The pressure on his throat lets up slightly, enough for him to greedily suck in air.  
  
“So you fucked the other Kirk.  How was it?”  It’s said in a mild tone as the arm starts pressing against his windpipe again and every instinct in Leonard’s ‘mostly sober now’ body is sent shrieking into high alert.    
  
“It was weird,” he wheezes out.  Apparently he’s still not sober enough to come up with a better answer.  Or maybe it’s the lack of oxygen to the brain.  
  
"Weird?”  Kirk blinks down at him, frowning.  
  
“It was like…like fucking you if you were a Labrador puppy.”  _Hell and fucking goddamn_ , that comes out sounding wrong on _so_ many levels.  
  
Apparently the moronic answer takes Kirk off guard, because he gives a huffed laugh, sounding genuinely amused, and sits back, releasing the pressure on Leonard’s throat.  Leonard can only blink, baffled as he gratefully gulps in as much beautiful air as he can while Kirk gives a friendly shove to the side of Leonard’s head— _ow_ —before sliding off to rest against Leonard’s side.  
  
“Labrador, heh.”  Kirk snickers while Leonard absorbs the fact that he may actually live through this _incredibly dumb ass_ plan of his without severe trauma or humiliation.  
  
Of course it’s at this point that, without warning, Kirk reaches bound hands over to grip Leonard’s spent dick in a hold that’s tight enough to make Leonard flinch.  
  
“McCoy,” Kirk’s tone is suddenly all business.  
  
“Yeah?” Leonard answers cautiously, keeping very, very still.  
  
“You ever try putting restraints on me again, I’ll parade you through the ship wearing nothing but a cock leash.”  
  
Kirk does _not_ make idle threats and, Jesus, just the thought of the suddenly vivid mental picture is enough to flush Leonard’s face dark red with embarrassment as his _entire being_ cringes from the possibility.  Even so, his hastily muttered “Yes, Captain” of submission hardly has any snarl behind it because, in a fucked up way, Kirk’s threat is almost reassuring.  It restores a little balance to Leonard’s unsteady world.  Because, if anything, Kirk’s reaction to what he is now officially naming ‘The Dumbest Assed Plan’ has left him more confused and unsettled than ever.  
  
He breathes out an unsteady huff as Kirk lets go.  
  
“McCoy.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Cuffed hands shoot up in the air in demand.  
  
“Get these fucking restraints off me.”  
  
At some point Leonard falls asleep and he doesn’t know how long has passed when he wakes to the feel of Kirk on him; to Kirk pushing into him in a slow but relentless pace as he strokes Leonard’s already full and aching dick.  
  
“Wh…” Leonard starts to ask, confused, as he fights off the pull of sleep.  
  
“Since apparently you’re not too broke to fuck after all.”  Kirk’s voice is dark and possessive and almost as hot as the hand stroking possessively over Leonard in time with the pace of Kirk’s dick.  Tangled, violent need sweeps through Leonard, dragging a moan that’s almost a plea from his lips as he realizes the restraints are now binding his own hands.  That he’s pinned down, unable to touch, able only to feel.    
  
And as Leonard gives in, shuddering at Kirk’s relentless demands, he admits to himself, if only in this moment of surrender, that it feels like coming home.


End file.
